


on the job training

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Apologies I have no idea what I'm talking about, Daddy Kink, M/M, Mentor Hannibal, Military AU, Neither of the mains perpetrates, Not because of Hannibal for once, Past physical trauma, Power Dynamics, Sexual Harrassment, Verging into casefic territory, Will is uncomfortable at work, Will's shoulder injury, Young Will, hints of - Freeform, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: Will’s hunched over yet another form—with a name and number designation he’s supposed to have memorized but doesn’t know—hands trembling and shoulder cramping when a W-5 Will’s never seen before strides into Gellman’s office, not even bothering with a polite knock.“Lecter,” Gellman says, a little croak of fear in his voice, despite the fact that he’s the highest-ranking person in the room.“Crawford’s staff have had lot of trouble with a certain boot lately. I think you know the name,” the warrant officer says, Will glancing over his own shoulder to get a better look at him.A man in uniform isn’t unusual in his profession, God knows, but the newcomer wears his with a remarkable distinction, almost as if—and Will begrudges himself the stupidity at his mental simile—he’s wearing a three-piece suit instead of his everyday ACUs.-Will Graham, a freshly-minted MP, meets Chief Warrant Officer Hannibal Lecter. Interesting Power Dynamics ensue.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 78





	on the job training

**Author's Note:**

> Please go easy on me. I know nothing about being an MP, or about being part of any investigative or administrative unit in any branch of the military. This is all for fun. The characters just happen to be in the Army. 
> 
> This was inspired by Twitter, as always. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Will’s hunched over yet another form—with a name and number designation he’s supposed to have memorized but doesn’t know—hands trembling and shoulder cramping when a W-5 Will’s never seen before strides into Gellman’s office, not even bothering with a polite knock.

“Lecter,” Gellman says, a little croak of fear in his voice, despite the fact that he’s the highest-ranking person in the room. 

“Crawford’s staff have had lot of trouble with a certain boot lately. I think you know the name,” the warrant officer says, Will glancing over his own shoulder to get a better look at him.

A man in uniform isn’t unusual in his profession, God knows, but the newcomer wears his with a remarkable distinction, almost as if—and Will begrudges himself the stupidity at his mental simile—he’s wearing a three-piece suit instead of his everyday ACUs.

Lecter tosses a thick personnel file onto Gellman’s desk, where it lands with a muted thud.

“Chilton’s been written up five times in the last month. Do something about it. _Sir_ ,” Lecter adds, the honorific tacked on for show.

Will doesn’t even need to peek at the file to guess that whichever misbehaving recruit Lecter is referring to is somehow related to Major Gellman’s penchant for nepotism.

Edward had been busted back down a rank after Gellman pulled a few strings too many before his youngest brother had been ready for his latest promotion. Frederick Chilton, Gellman’s eldest nephew, did not appear to be faring any better.

At the thought of his boss’s misfortune, Will’s hands steady the slightest bit, and he continues to fill out the carbonless form on the clipboard in front of him.

Lecter leaves the room without comment, Gellman flicking Chilton’s personnel file shut with a disgusted mutter.

“ _Well_?” he says, gesturing to the hall. “I don’t want this bullshit on my desk! You chase after him. Go on, boy.”

Will, head tucked in supplication, swallows his protests and does as he’s been told, grabbing the file and hurrying out the door.

He’s gone through a lot to become the Major’s aide, though he knows that more’s coming, and soon. Gellman’s not a forgiving man, and he cannot forget the flicker of panic he saw in the major’s eyes when Lecter walked in.

His shoulder throbs with the memory of why he was here in the first place, and he wonders, with a sad sort of detachment, what kind of monster would make someone like Gellman shake in his boots.

A few pieces of paper escape the file in his race to catch up to Lecter, and he reminds himself not to let the tears pricking the corners of his eyes show as he reaches down to collect them.

“S-sorry, sir—S-sorry, Chief Warrant Officer,” he says, correcting himself. Will had learned that those who had once walked the enlisted path did not always appreciate being called “sir.”

“Are you alright,” Lecter asks, stooping down to hand him the last stray sheet. He says it as if he already knows the answer is in the negative.

“I’m fine,” Will says, then blurting out, “Major Gellman’s just been ridin’ me on paperwork.”

Will hasn’t been at his current duty station for much more than a year, and advanced training was still fresh in his mind, but so was the nagging suspicion that Gellman had selected him for this post for one reason. The major had sat in on one of his training exercises—well, one of his brigade’s training exercises—months ago, and seen something in him.

Since he’d been with Gellman, there’d been late night assignments, touches on his arm or lower back that strayed too close to impropriety, but nothing he could complain about to the chain of command.

Still, he knew it was a matter of time until Gellman pounced.

“Are you injured?” Lecter asks, sharp eyes noting the pained slump in Will’s right shoulder, how he shifted the file, light as it was, to his left hand. The aborted movement as his right moved to fiddle with his MP band, the wince as Will’s body came to terms with it being a bad idea.

Will can’t shut out the memory of his father’s phantom yell— _What’s wrong with you, boy?!_ —when he’d dislocated his shoulder playing with the other kids when he was young.

Muscles screaming, Will does his best to improve his posture, smiling through a grimace. Sweat begins to trickle down his temple.

“I tagged along on a routine arrest during training. Got—g-got stabbed. It’s nothing. Just haven’t had time to visit the physical therapist,” he says, blanching and all but shoving the file into Lecter’s hands.

“The major—The major sends his thanks,” he lies, floundering for what to say next.

Of course, it couldn’t be _Gellman’s_ responsibility to tell the warrant officer to fuck off.

“It can’t be nothing. You’re in pain,” Lecter says, and reaches into his pocket, fishes something out.

His card, Will thinks dumbly, mouth half-agape as Lecter writes something on the back.

“I have a friend who can help,” he says, and Will swallows, a sudden coppery taste in the back of his throat.

“Did you just give me your number?” he asks, voice soft in the empty hallway.

“No later than 1900, corpsman,” Lecter says, and Will blinks, realizing he’s just been ordered to call the warrant officer’s _personal line_ at his superior’s leisure.

It seems like something Gellman would do (and Will fights the vision that pops into his mind: Gellman whispering to him late at night, sweaty and predatory, greedy palms tugging at his uniform, _stop being such a tease, Graham, just give it up_ —).

Instead of being nauseated at the card in his hand, at the come-on disguised as an offer of help, his stomach flips with something like excitement.

 _He noticed me_.

The thought is childish, and though he may only be exchanging one yoke for another by taking this bait, he is too eager.

This, he thinks, could be the change he’s been waiting for.

He’s surprised when the first thing Lecter does is promise to get him bumped to the front of the physical therapy line.

“I wasn’t pulling your leg about having a friend who could help,” Lecter says, phone transforming his voice into something even lower and rougher, and Will resists the urge to bite his nails in order to channel his anxious disappointment.

_What, you thought he was gonna ask you out for a candlelit dinner?_

“Specialist Bloom and I have been friends for a long time.”

“Lucky her,” Will says, hating how dreamy it comes out. Whatever. He can blame it on Gellman keeping him up late at night.

“Make sure to see her, Will. I’ll find out if you don’t,” Lecter says, and Will doesn’t know whether he should consider that a threat.

Lecter _made_ an appointment for him, Will finds out, checking his government email in the morning.

He has the choice to refuse, can’t stomach the fact that he’s been moved up past people far more deserving, though his shoulder throbs in protest at this opportunity.

He debates for another half hour before showing up to Gellman’s office.

“Sir, would I be able to see Medical today? I-I got an appointment. F-For my shoulder.”

Gellman, armpit-deep in _today’s_ latest administrative SNAFU, with two other corpsman-cum-clerks at his beck and call, is for once too busy to turn his lecherous gaze towards Will for anything other than a disinterested glare.

“Log it on your timesheet,” he says, and dismisses him.

Will books it over to Bloom’s office, knowing and not wanting to admit how the few hours of freedom feels as good as if he’s been released from prison.

First Lieutenant Alana Bloom isn’t the first person to see him, though he appreciates the kind-faced E-3s who do his intake paperwork and chat with him for a little while about his Tri-Care options.

“You’ve got a nasty bit of scar tissue built up—No one ever talked to you about surgery?” Bloom asks, a frown marring her pretty features.

Will doesn’t know why he expected her to be anything like Lecter was, and doesn’t know why he’s less than enthused to learn she’s one of those rare people who has genuine care for every patient she sees.

“I guess I slipped through the cracks,” he says, eyes downcast. “I’d like to stay away from knives as much as possible, considering the circumstances.”

She doesn’t laugh at his joke.

“I can help you rehabilitate it, but you’d need surgery to regain total functionality.”

“I can commit to a daily yoga regimen,” he says, and this time, Bloom smiles.

“I’m not gonna force you to take the surgery option if you don’t want it, but I’ll do my best to have you back up and running in no time.”

Will doesn’t leave her office with anything more than a tutorial on a few useful rotator-cuff exercises, but for some reason, he chuckles to himself as he leaves, feeling like he’s brought himself the moon.

Will’s thumb hovers over his phone, buyer’s remorse, maybe, after moving Lecter’s contact information to his favorites.

 _Can’t hurt to have a higher-up in your pocket if you ever need one_ , he tells himself, though that can’t be the truth, not for how he wants to call Lecter and tell him he’s done as asked, _just like a good little boy_.

He settles for a text message instead, knowing he’s being foolish.

Lecter’s met him once, sees dozens of different people every day. He’s probably forgotten Will’s name by now.

 _I went to see Lieutenant Bloom_ , he types, sending it before he can regret his decision.

The text back doesn’t take thirty seconds to appear.

 _Good_ , it says, and Will fidgets in his chair.

Alright.

There’s no indication, no three bubbles saying that Lecter is texting anything further.

Seems final enough, though he can’t help but think this—whatever it is—is just beginning.

It’s been three weeks, not that Will’s counting, since Lecter texted him, so he’s nothing short of flabbergasted at answering his buzzing phone without looking and finding the warrant officer on the other end of the line.

“This is Graham,” he says, expecting it to be…well, anyone else. Maybe Gellman calling to change his lunch order, not Lecter calling to make a dinner date.

He stands there in the mess hall, boots pigeon-toeing without his permission.

“Honey, where’s your card,” the cashier asks him, polite but impatient as he fumbles the plastic over.

“I’ll pick you up at 1830,” Lecter says, and names a place Will’s heard of and never looked into because it was way out of his price range, even if it was _casual dining_.

He’s not a hundred percent clueless. When an officer contacts someone like him for a non-work-related reason, it ain’t to share trade secrets. Someone like Lecter wouldn’t have a lot of opportunity to let his hair down, so this invitation was good as a wallet full of condoms.

Even if he should know better, he doesn’t care. It’s been months since he’s been laid anyway, preoccupied with keeping Gellman’s paws off him to even think about doing it with someone he would want to fuck.

“Sure, I’ll be there,” he says, trying not to sound like a flirt and failing.

He can’t see Lecter’s expression at all, doesn’t know enough about the older man to guess, but he hopes, somehow, he’s made him smile.

“I joined because I didn’t have a choice. My Dad had just died, and I didn’t have anything tying me to New Orleans. I—I wanted to be a homicide detective,” Will says, blushing at his honesty. This was a pseudo-first-date as an excuse for a one-night stand, but here he was, spilling his guts. “I thought getting a little real-world experience in criminal investigation would help me, and the Army could take care of whatever expenses I had for whenever I was in.”

Lecter smiles at him from across the table. They’re in a civilian eatery that’s miles away from work, and there are other diners in close proximity—it shouldn’t be as intimate as it is, but this is anything but going out for a beer with one of the guys. Lecter’s in another training unit, he doesn’t have any influence over the current trajectory of Will’s career, but Will can’t help but think he’s saying the wrong thing, that no matter how casual this appears, this may as well be him screwing up his future in a candlelit restaurant with jazzy piano playing in the background.

“And yet you’re stuck in Gellman’s office most of the day, filling out 598-Js.”

Will laughs, a sound that seems helpless, even to his own ears.

“ _He_ chose me. Was I supposed to turn him down?”

Lecter chuckles, warm and close to paternal. Will doesn’t like the patronizing tone, but what did he expect.

“Everyone has a choice, Will. Tonight, you chose to be here with me.”

There’s a bunch of low chatter in the background, though all Will can hear is the rush of blood in his ears is his own heartbeat, Lecter’s deep voice cutting through it all.

 _With me, with me, with me_.

Will’s the least surprised of either of them when he winds up staying the night.

The bed knocks violently against the wall, and Will reminds himself that the nearest neighbors are two vacant houses away. Still, he flushes as Lecter— _no, he told you to call him Hannibal, his name is Hannibal_ —yanks him back by the neck to kiss him.

He kisses like he’s trying to bite and bruise, and Will keens at the dirty-wet sound it makes as their bodies collide.

He wonders how many other poor corpsman Lecter has done this to, whether he’s snatched them directly from Gellman’s clutches, or whether this time was more of a happy accident.

“You’re late for duty, Will,” Lecter says, Will’s hands braced against the headboard, holding on for dear life. His shoulder hasn’t been giving him as much trouble the past week, since he’s been keeping up with Bloom’s recommendations in earnest, and he snorts to himself at the self-serving irony of Lecter signing him up for her program.

The warning should strike the fear of God into him, but in reality, it just serves to deepen the arch in Will’s back. He’s quickly falling in love with the way that Lecter’s moving inside of him, but the thought of Gellman’s reddening face, the major checking his watch, the office clock, and then screaming at some other poor unfortunate peon for his absence is what makes his toes curl in pleasure.

He lets out a low laugh, imagines Gellman’s mounting frustration one last time, and spills all over Lecter’s pillows, whimpering as Lecter forces him facedown into the wet mounds of fabric, hips clapping against Will’s ass as he reams it the way the major’s wanted to do for months.

Will doesn’t quite know whether it’s Lecter’s own unconcerned disregard or the fact that he’s managed to shit all over Gellman’s parade instead of the other way around, but the threat of being written up, the specter of being punished by the unflinching military code of justice, doesn’t bring the gut-wrenching terror it used to, not one day previous.

“I’ll take the demerit,” he says, murmuring in a happy little voice as Lecter collapses atop him, Will warm from the other man’s seed inside of him, warm from the bit of sun that’s managed to slip through the haphazardly shut curtains.

“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” Hannibal says, but doesn’t move a muscle to stop him.

“Graham, you incompetent—. What the hell did you do?!

“I told you—a _month_ ago—to _straighten things out_ with Lecter! Crawford called me this morning; he said they’re putting together the paperwork to discharge Frederick this aftern—.”

Gellman stops short in his tirade, eyes burning over Will’s face, over the livid bite of the side of his neck.

“Had a little fun instead of doing your job, did you,” he hisses, face an unappealing shade of puce.

He grabs Will by his bad arm, and Will recoils, though he knows better than to raise a hand against his superior. At best, they’d bust him back down to boot camp trainee; at worst, he’d get thrown into prison and then discharged for his trouble.

“Gellman,” a voice says, and Will can tell with a cursory glance at the eagle on his uniform that he’s a colonel, outranking the major by a few pay grades. His uniform reads _Crawford_.

“Came to congratulate you on a job well done. If your nephew had behaved himself just a little longer, he’d have been off probation. But lo and behold, his name came across my desk yester—.”

“It’s _Lecter_ ,” Gellman spits. “He went and tattled—.”

“Not that it matters, and not that you deserve to know, but it was Lounds. It pays to have spies everywhere, major.”

Crawford gives Will an acknowledging nod. “Graham. Heard you were putting in for a transfer. Clerk’s got your paperwork ready.”

“Transfer,” Gellman sputters, and Will doesn’t know whether to listen to the sinking feeling in his stomach or to bite his lip to hide a smile.

Will’s never met Crawford before today, and he _knows_ that Hannibal had something to do with this.

“He’s coming to work for me,” Crawford says, as if it is totally normal for someone of his standing to even bother telling Will apart from anyone else. “Look alive, Graham.”

They leave Gellman in his office, wringing his hands over how to find a new plaything on such short notice, but Will puts the major out of his mind as soon as they’re in the lobby, him hurrying to keep up with Crawford’s long strides.

“Lecter says you wanted to be a civilian cop. How’s life working out for you in here?” Crawford asks, and Will says, “Better now. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I may owe Lecter a few favors, but you’re only staying if you can do your job.”

“W-What job is that?” Will says. “Uh, sir.”

“Lecter thinks you’re bright—You must have him under some sort of spell.”

Crawford looks at him, dismissive of whatever element of attraction Will must hold to those who find him sexually appealing. The colonel doesn’t strike him as the judgmental type, but Will is still wary.

“I read your file; it said you’re skittish in the field, but today’s the tiebreaker on which of us is right.”

Will can’t help but think that he’d maybe made a mistake, constantly falling prey to men more powerful than he. Nothing but a pawn to be sacrificed, a bedwarmer to be traded.

_You owe Hannibal, for doing this. He owns you now._

“Tiebreaker?”

Crawford turns to look at him again, expression not unfriendly.

“I’ve got a handful of missing girls to deal with, Graham. How would you feel about finally putting some of your training to work?”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter @penseeart. 
> 
> So. This is my 50th fic. Yay.


End file.
